Poetry & Prose 2022

Poetry and Prose ~ 2022

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Editor Mattie Butler

Illustrator Nanaho Miki

With Thanks To Mrs Stansfield

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Foreword I am delighted to present this year’s edition of Poetry and Prose. With this being the first proper King’s Week since the start of the pandemic, it is more important than ever that King’s pupils have the opportunity to showcase their talents and creativity. This year’s edition features a range of pieces from every year group, and it has been a joy to work with so many people to produce this collection. Everyone who contributed should be very proud of the aptitude, imagination and hard work that is so clearly evident in every piece.

I’d like to give my thanks to Mrs Stansfield for dedicating so much time to the creation of this year’s edition. Nanaho and I are both beyond grateful for her constant support and guidance, as without her, this collection would not be possible.

Editor, Mattie Butler We, the illustration team, have been delighted to work with Mrs. Stansfield and Mattie on this year’s Poetry and Prose Journal. The team have spent time reading each submission and created pieces of work, interpretations of the poetry and prose that we hope best convey the atmosphere and emotions of each one of the works.

Art Editor, Nanaho Miki and the illustration team

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Contents Poetry The Wrong Mirror Charlie Nosworthy

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Night Sky Anonymous

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It’s Change Téa Sand

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Ellipses Natalya Hoare

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A Hidden Existence Mattie Butler

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Everlasting Performance Aiden Masiero

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A Classroom Haiku Breseya Clark

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Your Mother’s Daughter Anonymous

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Seabird Dora Wang

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Mum I’m A Big Girl Now Zara Kolade

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Split Funbi Okenla

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Unnamed Official Accounts Wendy Lian

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A Reflection Perhaps Complex Mattie Butler

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Tadpoles Hide Under Duckweed Breseya Clark

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Wandering Thoughts Lily Robertson

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Time is Like Water Cerelia Davis

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An Unfaithful Daughter Anonymous

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Prose Despair In Nagasaki Inigo Lenderking

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Sorrow Of A Soldier Theo Pickard

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Chased Anonymous

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Fear Honor Dwerryhouse

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The Stretch of Seconds Zlata Lankina

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Solitude Anonymous

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Weakness Nicole Okorocha

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An Assassin’s Mind Téa Sand

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Morgan Woods Bee Billet

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Guilt Anonymous

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Galatea Sylvain Chan

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Daybreak Song Finn Cleghorn-Brown

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Assumption Anonymous

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~ Poetry ~

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The Wrong Mirror Mr. Unknown wakes up in the morning, Looks in the mirror to see someone else’s face, That face shouts for him to leave the mirror, A new mirror laid shattered on the floor, A storming flame of confusion escaped out the front door.

Mr. Unknown sits trembling in his four walled cage, Forever trapped in the wrong body, With a face too big, hair too short?

His monstrous body dragged him towards a clinic, A meaty hand dragged open the door And a grotesque deep voice begged for some help.

The mask fell over Mr. Unknown’s face and the same voice Counted down from ten, “TEN, NINE, eight, seven, six, fi…”

Bright lights shone down on Mr Unknown lying in some silence, A new creature ran home to a new mirror, It ran with some newfound feelings, hope? JOY? Mr. Unknown knew what they saw wasn’t right, a wrong mirror?

A new mirror was bought, and another, and another!

It was not the first time mirrors had been laid to waste And Mr. Unknown decided it was his face causing the problem, Lips too small, forehead too wrinkled.

Now the untamed fire burnt ever brighter as the smoke billowed back Towards the clinic, more plastic was pumped under the skin, The wildfire blazed back to the same dirty mirror and saw A smile pasted onto the clear screen bit a chunk out of this human.

Mr. Unknown lost some control to the fire as plastic quickly replaced flesh.

The plastic doll gazed lazily in the mirror, the face became numb to touch, The fire burnt away the last of Mr. Unknown’s emotions, It burnt away his life, his money, his friends and his job.

All Mr. Unknown could do now was sit in front of the wrong face, Smiling awkwardly back at him, taunting him.

They remain to this day, two wrong faces, staring through the wrong mirror.

Charlie Nosworthy

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Night Sky I see the sun and you see the stars.

It is our differences that keep us apart.

We can talk about nothing the same.

For my beliefs confuse you.

I’m afraid it is a shame, That we’re too stubborn to think anything new.

I like to run and dance and skip, Through meadows of grass and flowers.

You like to sit and read by the fire, Protected from rain showers.

I like to smile at strangers on the street.

You smile at everyone you meet.

I laugh contagiously, loud and disruptive.

You look bemused, a simple chuckle you give.

I focus on the big, you the small.

The details that separate us, Act like towering walls.

But the touch of your hands suggests That we have found the best.

And although it makes us sigh We like each other’s view of the night sky.

Anonymous

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Illustration by Jane Lamb

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It’s Change It’s Here, It’s There, It’s Everywhere, Patrolling our hearts Singing our songs.

To Dance, To Sing, Do Everything A light, A truth, A step into the Unknown.

Once Flying, like a kite.

Blue.

Restless.

All but a touch away from Twice Running, to opposite ends.

Two corners, bright red.

A tingling sensation of a Red - hot chili pepper.

Thrice Seeking, the Last Words Of the story.

Not the end, but The Beginning.

Téa Sand

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Ellipses One day the ink runs dry, The stains stop short on the page.

A hesitant pen stock still, held tight.

The silence ever daunting, hard to gauge.

The gap grows ever larger; A shouting absence fills the Space.

A chasm that ink could never cover, A blankness taking its place.

This gift will not be tied in a bow.

No room for pretty neatness; Perfection would hardly fill this hole, Positioned punctuation ever hopeless Words crack under the Pressure of understanding; A longing for explanation, Pain of impossibility, a mind fighting But the page refuses to provide Those simple songs of light, No number of letters could ever entrap This beauty or its bite but Perhaps silence could try…

Natalya Hoare

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A Hidden Existence We have seen, even explored the idea of a smile Plastered across someone’s face to hide The shadows that fall underneath. But what if Someone’s sadness shown was a cover To conceal something even darker behind?

What if those eyes that dripped solemnly Were a pathway to the truth? Perhaps Those sorrowful eyes were smiling in Another place. Somewhere kind. Somewhere That their thoughts felt lighter, the stems Of dandelions on a breeze. Somewhere that Their lament could be shown with ease.

What if they felt so empty, so desolate, That their happiness felt too heavy, too Complacent? What if they became resentful Of the happy reflection they had created.

Careful now. For this person, we think, is Not really content either. But instead, Full of dread as every time they go to beam Like the sun waking you up from your dreams Their head spins as they are reminded of The way that they lost their voice that one Day. When consent was removed and rough Hands gathered at their sides. They became Not sad, just alone. As their perception of the World had changed. They lost their mind, their Pride, their emotions. And so now they sit and Cry, unsure exactly why but knowing it is Easier than having to replace their smile That everyone once saw. Concerned Faces and words swarmed their vision, But at least they knew they were at peace

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As they could hide themselves behind The tears that dripped solemnly, the eyes That looked sorrowfully. Their stolen body The burial sight of their locked up mind.

Mattie Butler

Illustrated anonymously

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Everlasting Performance The has Sun fell, The curtains have been raised, Another dance has begun.

Atop the umbral stage, actors arrive, Emerging from timeless depths.

Robed in light and wise beyond ages, They shine above their innocent audience.

A legion igniting the very sky With a simple dance, well known, Hardly understood.

Heavens decorated with ample glory, And accompanied by the melody of time Dance a never-ending dance. An everlasting performance.

Who can fathom the eternity of time?

Who can grasp the expanse of reality?

Who can understand the motives of this grand spectacle?

Worlds upon Worlds, dancing for our amusement.

What is truly left, but to simply, enjoy the show.

Aiden Masiero

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A Classroom Haiku Passing notes, art class I’m unfolding the paper “Top hat on a fish” Breseya Clark

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Your Mother’s Daughter She used to run her fingers through your hair, Comfort you with a smile and stories of a universe Different to your own. Where everything that hurt was far away.

You could fail and fall and find your way home after it all.

She used to love her child, her legacy, her creation.

Now she looks at you with malice, Disappointment clouding her tired eyes.

Her comforting fingers tearing at your soul And inflicting pain on the universe you created together.

Leaving you to face the uphill battle scared and alone.

The scars her words leave stay with you.

Broad strokes of crimson across your chest.

You ache all over, guilt streaming down your face.

‘Boys don’t cry’ what a perfect lie to tell yourself, But you still broke when she said you would always be her daughter.

You cut your hair and wear a tie And she cries at the loss of her beautiful girl.

She resents you for taking her away.

She screams and sobs and begs for you to disappear, To give back the daughter you never were.

The girl staring back at you from the mirror is finally gone.

You find yourself in the reflection on the water’s edge, And you mourn.

You mourn your mother’s love; you mourn for her daughter.

She never loved her son, only the girl you couldn’t be.

Anonymous

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Seabird Do you ever wonder What it must be like To be a bird Gliding on invisible currents From above, a white speck Crawling on wrinkled, dark-blue silk Sunlight glances off the waves like a thousand Diamonds.

Ever-changing, and yet All around A vast expanse of blue Like an eternal desert From below, a white shape With outstretched wings, flying in A clear blue sky, cloudless, monotone, The vast, flat dome of air.

No matter how far you look Nothing to break the line Never-changing A world of endless continuity From the side, a white streak Soaring in a background of blue Cobalt and indigo mix Into a misty horizon.

And do you wonder If they ever get lonely Up there All alone? I do.

But then I remember Though there is no life in sight A seabird will always find Its way home.

Dora Wang

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Mum I’m A Big Girl Now Mum I’m a big girl now Our little girl cries Fancying herself wise, As she twirls in her pink ribboned dress Ready to impress At the age of five.

Mum I’m a big girl now Door slams and patters of hurried feet, she returns from school Oh how Our little girl sobs, she didn’t know girls could be so cruel, They shamed her body and pulled her curly hair She couldn’t find any friends, not anywhere At the age of nine.

Mum I’m a big girl now Shirt buttoned, shoes shined, uniform smart as can be But wait “Is that a slither of skin I see?”

Her jumper is too tight, her tights too sheer, has she even got a skirt on?

Our little girl being taught to cater to someone’s son At the age of thirteen.

Mum I’m a big girl now Corrective pastes and powders are slathered And all her courage is gathered, It’s her first party, she’s grown into her looks, they say But they didn’t see Our little girl run everyday At the age of seventeen.

Mum I’m a big girl now She’s in her prime, fettered with beauty, she is thrown into the lion’s den The fervent salaciousness of men, Our little girl crosses the street Because he’s a danger she’d rather not meet At the age of twenty-one.

Mum I’m a big girl now She’s working, our little girl has got a job!

First day, her nervous heart gives a throb, And there he is, that familiar face from the class of twenty-two Same job, who knew?

At the age of twenty-five.

Mum I’m a big girl now To and from work, she goes through the motions Our little girl is frustrated at missed premotions, And why should he deserve them, when she has more devotion She tells herself one day they’ll see past her emotion.

Maybe.

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At the age of twenty-nine.

Mum I’m a big girl now This morning was a hurry She left the house in a flurry, Didn’t even have time to make herself up, Whispers of “She looks tired” and “She’s really let herself go.”

And she is tired Because you never let her rest.

Zara Kolade

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Split I have known From the first sting That a mark would form.

This time you have struck me Right between the eyes.

A red, raised welt Forms in the centre of my life.

An anxious thumb Tugs at taut skin Threatening to split.

Funbi Okenla

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Unnamed Official Accounts 6th July 2021, with no prior warning, many social media accounts for university LGBTQ+ groups in mainland China were shut down permanently, and appeared on the search result page as “Unnamed Official Accounts.” Although the LGBTQ+ community is no longer criminalised in mainland China, censorships are becoming increasingly heavy in recent years. In some cases, two LGBTQ+ individuals from the opposite gender would marry each other to avoid being discovered.

She saw the newborn’s very first smile, She heard the magpie singing a brand new sad song.

She lets her hair chase after the wind, In a dream with her she lies down.

Red liquid drowned by the bottle opener, Water blue opium woven into wounded silk.

She paints her painting, her painterHer skin, too.

He was invited to a white Western wedding, He sang an Eastern Funeral song as he quietly left.

He sews the dragon pattern onto his sleeve, And cuts it off as a gift.

Crimson-robed Achilles had been mourning, Soaked in indigo the endless sea secretly sobs.

His flesh like red lanterns, blushingOrgans blushing, too.

Father suggested lilies to match the white dress, And complained about how the wedding was on thirteenth.

He stared into the sky giving it a French kiss, approved by moonlight’s red rose.

Wendy Lian -------Films/Books/Works Referenced: Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), M. Butterfly (1993), Farewell, My Concubine (1993), Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994), Mood Indigo (2019), Word of Honor (2021), Raise the Red lantern (1991), Red Rose, White Rose, by Eileen Chang, (1944)

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Illustration by Nanaho Miki

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A Reflection Perhaps Complex A faded expression is all I see.

Something so somewhat melancholy.

A reflection perhaps complex.

Cherishing the silence. Regret.

Their words so soft and bright, full of Delight. As if. A smile to reconcile All the woes, comfort found from Forgetfulness, forbidden hope.

Their eyes sparkle like pools Of water in the sun. Sometimes Everything becomes so caught up.

Giggles, chatter, talk of Parties. Dancing, singing and letters Signed with a scribble to signify a kiss.

A kiss. A single kiss and memories float Through the air playing delicately with our hair.

Blades of grass stuck in the soles, while Laces become damp and tangled. The keyhole Ominous yet perfect. The lock clicks as we rush inside To a world far from destitute. Wrecked.

Vivid shouts and laughs. Lunches and suppers And mid afternoon tea. The scone sought after.

Recklessly. It was good and brilliant and full of Surprise. A bouquet bought, smelt and died.

Cold water to revive the lungs. Whispers gone bedtime And candles melting like the snow on the trees.

Cascading happiness the one emotion, though often Excitement becomes apparent as the robin disappears.

Thoughts and feelings rushed. Friends swept off their feet with you By their side. A distant group huddle together outside the dining hall.

You picture your face nodding along. You’re not wrong Except you were never there. Your imagination wild With despair. The cold water used for fun becomes a Tormented punishment. Stunned. Words cannot Contemplate mere existence when reality is Hazed. When reality is no longer so transparent.

Hours of joy that blurred to one now distinct Lies on a page. The recollections of past times

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Fake and unimpressive. You see yourself staring Back. Your eyes bore holes into the etched echoes you Have imprinted onto your mind. The realisation hits As you begin to sink, that this life you have reminisced is False. On the floor now you sob as those harsh words that Broke through create dark images in your head. Everything Thought prior now a shadow of the truth. Lonely, This world that you have been brought back into.

The glistening mirror that helped you imagine a life in which you were exhilarated, gone. Replaced instead By a cold relentless piece of glass.

Your reflection seems perhaps complex.

As you cherish the silence. Full of regret.

Mattie Butler

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Illustration by Nanaho Miki

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Tadpoles Hide Under Duckweed Tadpoles hide under duckweed, And they dash about at speed, “This one’s got legs!

And Look! There’s some eggs!”

Those tadpoles should hide indeed!

Mr. Hedgehog looks drowsy, To him daylight is lousy, some water to drink, brush off fleas in a blink Off he trots, he’s no longer frowsy!

Sparrows they flit from the birdbath, And Miss Squirrel uses our fence as a path, All through the garden, Life does awaken, My, what an impact springtime hath!

Breseya Clark

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Wandering thoughts The passion that is words, Is woven magic in the sun.

Individual heat on our tongues, This is the heart in our run.

The drive towards our highs, Fuels the passion in our lows.

The utmost height of the sky, Flies higher with the crows.

There is no boundary to love, No depth enough to fill.

The heaven that is hope, Is an upside down hill.

If I couldn’t swallow my emotions, Into the crevice I would pour.

To escape the mind’s gates, Without which I would soar.

Without inclination, Idiosyncrasy is just a trait.

If willing to push back, The finish line won’t be late.

Lily Robertson

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Time Is Like Water Time is like water It gives life but prompts death Its murky marsh enticing you into its depths Unsure of your steps Until it takes your last breath And you see what you were as it reflects It slips through your cupped hands Cascading like sand through the crippled cracks Illusions form tracks Never quite reaching dry land Always invisible and abstract Minutes turn to days turn to years As springs flow to streams flow to seas It ripples with a breeze Changing your appearance through tears While it spreads like a fatal disease Time is like water Cerelia Davis

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Illustration by Mark Wu

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An Unfaithful Daughter And if I saw her for what she was, And if I saw her for what she is, Where would I be left?

A thread wove round my thoughts, Showed the distance I had sought, Feelings remained trapped, caught.

Disregarded.

I felt indebted, unguarded. As if my Perception could be pulled apart, Looked through as though water, Were I to be an unfaithful Daughter?

Ophelia lay blushing as she drowned.

Denied the proper ground to lay, Transgressed divinity, it was only The sounds of her weeping, Sweeping, melancholic songs.

Were I to pray, remiss myself a Fool. As a monster I drool, driven By my wrongs.

Simpler in perfection, simpler In dejection. A world needing Time, stronger minds.

Tomorrow perhaps.

One hundred years perhaps.

Anonymous

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Illustration by Sylvain Chan

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~ Prose ~

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Despair in Nagasaki "Hina-chan, come down for breakfast!" Grandmother's exuberant voice wafted up from the kitchen. "Time to get up."

But Hina was already up. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, her eyes giving off a sad, pitiful glow. The sound of glass breaking and muffled screams echoing in her head. Hina looked down at her bandaged hands, her arms covered in scars and dried blood. Her grandfather once told her that she was born with a gift, a gift like no one else's, the beauty at heart to garden. Her botanical passion was so great that she could display her plants around the world.

Hina sighed, she thought about how wonderful it was to be outside and create amazing new types of flowers. Or when she would carefully cut branches on the fuji flowers, she remembered how steady her hands were when she did this.

But everything was different now.

She would never forget the day when the atom bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. The bomb radius was so large it sent shock waves to her town and shattered windows, smaller buildings collapsed, people died. Hina was knocked to the ground. When she tried to shield her face hundreds of jagged glass pieces pierced her delicate youthful body. Ripping deep gashes along her wrists, blood was everywhere. Now four weeks later, her hands were still patched up.

"You'll be fine, you will be able to garden soon." Mother's letters told me. Even so, I was not convinced, mother was a doctor and reassured many people in the town with similar words.

Hina thought about the words she was told again by her grandfather. "You have the gift to make the whole world your garden" Hana grinded her teeth. That gift is gone. She will never be able to garden again.

"Hina breakfast!" Grandma said it again but this time a little less bubbly.

Hina stood up and went downstairs. She sat down at the low table and tried to pick up her chopsticks. When they fell with a clatter grandma picked them back up and fed Hina as though she were a little baby.

"Good food cures everything." My Grandmother said with a warm smile.

Hina felt powerless, a small silver tear ran down the side of her face. She immediately wiped it. Grandma subtly embraced her revealing an entire river of tears, the warm embrace made Hina feel better, as she sobbed her whole body trembled.

"Shh You must stop crying," Grandma whispered. "Your tears will not help those who were killed by the bomb. Their souls must swim across the River of Death to heaven. Every tear you shed drops into the river and makes it deeper."

Hina woke up the next morning and peered outside the window, the sun engulfed her body warming her from head to toe replacing the cold chill that enveloped her body on that day.

Grandmother was taking care of the garden. She watched longingly as she unwrapped the bandages from her hand.

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The crimson streaks were still there. But she could move her fingers slightly, once again she started to sob, but this time it was different, they were tears of happiness. The Colour that had left her face briskly returned. She walked outside and Grandma was there waiting with her warm smile, holding out a pair of matching bright white gardening gloves. She felt the gift that once left her return to her grasp.

It was difficult at first, she thought to quit many times. However, with her grandmother supporting her she was able to accomplish many things. People from all over Japan came to visit her magnificent works of art. A few months later Hina started a job out of her talent. The price for some of Hina's botanical art was high. Even Emperor Hirohito would send people to buy her plants for his palace.

For the first time in forever, she felt truly happy. People loved her. Hina was able to buy her own house with the money she made. Every day was spent in the garden. Every day arose a new delight.

Four years later Hina received a letter. Mother or Father had not written back or visited for a year. Excitedly she grasped the letter and tore it open. Hina's heart dropped. Blood dripping from her bitten lips. Shaking with grief a broken scream was released from her mouth. They say the happier the person, the deeper the despair. Hina's parents had both passed away due to radiation sickness from the bomb. "Why?" was the only word that came to mind.

She collapsed on the floor. A day later she remained there. Bathing in her own filth. Her own vomit. Every time she tried to get up, she fell again. Tears and blood overran her once beautiful face. Today was opening day for her shop. Soon customers would see her vile state.

She stood up. The shadow of a customer appeared at her door.

Several knocks. Pause. Hina opened the door. The customer raised his hand to his mouth as if to vomit, he put his hand down and walked away. Several minutes later he reappeared at the doorway. This time he bowed and apologized. A small pouch of money appeared from his right hand. "Please take this!" He said and slowly walked into the golden dawn.

Hina didn't want money, she wanted her family. Inside the pouch was at least 700 yen. This would cover her food for about two days. Hina flipped the pouch upside down and shook it.

The money spilled out. as well as a small note. Curiously Hina opened it. "Do you hate the people who did this to us? Meet me outside Iwado shrine two nights from now at sunset."

Hina spent the next day cleaning up her house, she knew she couldn't stay like this forever.

She had a list of doubts about what that man said. It could be a trap set by the Americans to capture people who are planning something. Unlikely, the stationed soldiers were on the other side of Nagasaki. Hina reminisced, she wanted to forget everything that happened and live happily in the gardens once more. It was now autumn, apples were perfect now. She slid open the door and walked through her garden towards the glistening apple tree. Hina reached for one and grasped onto it, she took a bite. The luscious, mellow apple tasted so sweet. A thin stream of tears ran down her face. She was prepared to face anything.

The next evening at sunset, Hina climbed the foot of Mount Unzen, to reach the Iwado shrine. There kneeling and praying were four men. One of which she recognized. Beside him a briefcase. Hina joined in on the prayer. The briefcase clicked, inside were three guns. Small pistols. As well as a large knife. Hina had never seen a real gun. In that instant, she knew what she was going to have to do.

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The man who Hina saw the other day walked to her. This time he forced a smile, "We are all people who suffered from the bomb. I am Akihiko, those people over there are Ryosuke, Daichi, and Goro." He said whilst pointing to each of them. Daichi wore a Police uniform. He must have been the one who got the guns. Everybody shared the same pale expressionless look.

Akihiko filled me in on what was going to happen. A plan to invade the US army station whilst they were asleep and assassinate everyone there. Hina clutched her Haori. This was probably going to end her life, she thought to herself. However, she could see mother and father if she did this and get revenge on the people that took away everything.

Goro proceeded to hand out the weapons. Hina got the knife, and the rest of them got guns.

How unjust. Hina has a small frame, rendering a knife useless unless she targets vital points.

Akihiko pulled out a helmet from a plastic bag beside him. He handed it to Hina. She put it on. It did not fit in the slightest, it would fall off with a jerk of her head. Goro then informed the group that they would set out tonight. In order to reach the base before sunrise and that they may quickly go home to gather anything that may be of help.

Everyone went in separate directions. Hina quickly walked back home, she decided to bring one of her smaller kitchen knives as well. In a small backpack, she put some water and another apple, before saying goodbye to her home.

She met back up with everyone at the Iwado shrine. They all went to get water or food. This time everyone looked back at their hometown, they would never return again, but they knew this and still carried on.

Upon approaching the military personnel station, the group started to crawl and avoid any unnecessary motion. Areas without natural coverage were avoided. Just twenty meters away from the gate. Now just ten. They proceeded slowly and cautiously. "Just six more met"Akihiko's voice was cut off by the sound of an alarm.

The sound of soldiers cocking their guns, whilst a blazing alarm shook Hina's skull and made her ears scream. Everyone was overwhelmed. Nobody expected it to end this quickly. Goro ran towards the gate screaming whilst firing off his gun. He nearly made it to the gate before suddenly falling to the floor. Bright scarlet blood spurted from his body like a small fountain.

It spread around his body like a wildfire.

The soldiers shouted something through a loudspeaker, however, the sound of alarms and the shock of what was happening made it inaudible to the group. Hina looked to her comrades in trepidation. Akihiko had put his gun in his mouth. He did not want a filthy American taking away his life as they took away his family.

The sound of the gun going off deafened Hina. The only remaining survivors were her and Daichi. Crimson red streaks of blood spat at Hina. In a daze, she remained on the floor. This was not a plot to seek revenge, this was a suicide mission. Daichi quickly grabbed a hold of Hina. Together they sprinted away from the base and towards a nearby beach. Cold sweat flew off her as she ran. Daichi caught a glimpse of a cavern just forty meters along the shore.

Together they lunged towards it barely missing a bullet.

They sat down realizing this was the end for them. A sharp pain radiated from Hina's lower torso. She glanced down. She had been shot. They had both been shot. The world is unjust.

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Why is it that the innocent die, but the evil remains? Nobody deserves this much sorrow.

Daichi was the first to collapse to the ground. Hina did not cry, instead, she looked at her reflection in a small puddle, self-pity washed over her, she remained upright and died as soon as the troops arrived at the cavern. She would finally get to see her family.

Inigo Lenderking

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Illustration by Nanaho Miki

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Sorrow of a Soldier The bombardment had begun to draw out. The shells whistled overhead and crashed into the trenches like meteorites sent by the wrath of some malevolent god. Mud was violently thrown up into in the air. Sergeant Stanley Johnson looked on and sighed with gritted teeth as men ran forwards and backwards in his trench, carting the dead and dying like gruesome transports.

One man was blistered, the white boils almost pulsing with sickness, blood pouring out of his mouth as he screamed in pain. The gas attack had been the worst the sergeant had seen before.

Even now the rats were screeching and rustling. He had a sudden thought to draw his bayonet and skewer them, ‘You never know, might end up tasting better than whatever meat they feed us, god forbid that’s beef’ he thought. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. Although he was a sergeant and the men recognised him as that, he had torn off his crisp, white stripes long ago.

It was common knowledge that snipers targeted the officers and sergeants were no exception.

He had been in a close encounter with one such sniper previously, at a time before the trench lines were fully etched into the ground, when he was sent on patrol in a nearby forest with his platoon. He had lost three good, experienced men in that engagement. Not just men; brothers.

They were family to him. His blood boiled even now when he thought about it, about how the first had died instantly, a shot to the head. They had dashed for cover but the second was too slow and has been singled out. Sergeant Johnson could still picture his face as the man crawled to him, crying out for help, the blood trailing as he tried with the last strength he had within him to reach the officer. Johnson was almost like a beacon of hope for the man as his life began to vanish from him. Johnson could not break cover, he understood this but still knew that there must have been another way, any way to save him. The third had jumped out of cover and drawn the sniper whilst the others watched the muzzle flash and executed the enemy with a barrage of .303 fire. The most honourable death you could have in this time of dishonourable killings. The loose, lifeless corpse of the revealed sniper hung from the tree that acted as his vantage point, his head resting gently on a wooden outstretched arm. Johnson was convinced that he had failed his men that day, but repeatedly told himself he must avenge them. Sadly, no matter what he told himself, nothing helped the guilt. The men. His men. They trusted him without fail and he recalled a saying he had heard his drill sergeant tell them during training, ‘A good soldier follows without question, a good officer leads without doubt.’ Both him and his valiant soldiers had followed this to the word yet, was this a lie too?

Stanley Johnson never expected war to become a part of his life. At least not like this. This war was said to be an adventure, one of bravery and honour. How wrong could they be? There is no honour here. Only death. He left everything behind: his parents, his job, his life. The sergeant promotion had come quicker than expected, the previous sergeant had been killed on one of Johnson’s first engagements with their adversaries. Sergeant Johnson had, at least to his superiors and the men he commanded, almost all the qualities of the perfect soldier: courage, honesty, and upheld self-decency.

Now Johnson sat in his dugout, cleaning his Short Magazine Lee-Enfield. The shells and gunshots no longer bothered him. He thought back to when he used to be affected by the crashes and harsh cracks and how the sounds made his skin crawl. He scoffed at how pathetic this seemed now. If nothing else, this war had hardened him, to a point where he had seen everything. Nothing bothered him anymore. Nothing except the death of his men, and all those that fought around him. They were heroes. Johnson just hoped they would be remembered in that way. He could smell the putrid scent of rot and of decay and of the overflowing latrines. It seemed that his nostrils had been hardened as much as the rest of him. The putrid stench still stung his nose, however. The mud around him was shaken and flung, stinging the soldiers’ eyes. Johnson was so intertwined with his rifle that he didn’t see the man before him.

38

“Fancy a cig sir?” The voice asked in a gruff, yet kind tone.

“Sorry? Oh, no thanks Harry.”

Johnson was slightly startled by his silent approach. Harry Borne was Johnson’s closest friend, and even though they had known each other for years, had joined the pal battalion together, and fought numerous times side by side, Harry still insisted on referring to him as ‘sir.’

“Gas attack yesterday was bad wasn’t it sir?”

“Yes, Harry I’m afraid it was.”

“Lost a few from the company we did. The bombardments been out for a while. Fritz is coming you know,” Johnson nodded in grim agreement.

“Anyway, any letters from the family?” Harry enquired.

“Yeah, mum’s been sending me some nice things, says she’s been down with the other girls in town, sewing for us. Got a lovely pair of socks I did. What about you? How’s the Mrs?” The gentle patter of rain quietly fell on them.

“Eh, same old, same old She’s been-“ “Shhhh, Harry can you hear?

“Hear what?”

“The rain, Harry. The artilleries gone silent.”

He cautiously lifted his eyes just above the trench. Nothing. He had time.

“Defensive Positions!” He shouted to his sombre soldiers.

They immediately sprang into fatigued action, entering positions as ordered, with fellow officers yelling commands further down the seemingly endless line of mud and grit. Sergeant Johnson and Harry Borne exchanged a quick nod before lining at the trench, rifles poised for the incoming slaughter. The machine gunners had mounted their deadly weapons of war. There was a moment of pure silence. All anyone could hear was the breathing of the men standing beside them. Then the enemy reared its head. Now they were out for all to see.

“OPEN FIRE!” All at once the salvo started. Bolts clicking back and forth. Bullets screaming towards their target. The cartridges clattered as they fell. So did the bodies of the enemy. The sergeant did not think, he did not have space to stop and consider; he just fired again and again. At present they were merely 20 metres away and had begun to return fire. A man close to the sergeant screamed in agony as his hand completely disintegrated with the impact of a bullet. Fighters around them began to fall and they took a step back.

The Germans were here. They began to jump into the trench and engage in hand-to-hand combat. Sergeant Johnson prepared himself. He gritted his teeth and mustered his strength.

This is what he had been waiting for. Conflict had begun to affect the man. He was only human after all. Too many times had the sergeant been too meek, and too afraid to save those around him.

No more.

A German soldier jumped down in front of sergeant Johnson as he drew the bayonet. The German had a spiked mace in his grip and launched himself. The sergeant was stronger and easily overpowered his attacker. Johnson clenched the man’s arm as they locked eyes. The German soldier’s face was filled with fear, the sergeant’s with rage. A mild cry was let out from the attacker and Johnson headbutted him with the strength of a bull. He pinned the German’s head against the side of the trench and slit his throat with the hand that was holding the knife. One of the sergeant’s own men now held his rifle towards Johnson. The man fired, seemingly at Johnson. Suddenly, a shriek was let out behind the sergeant. A body fell at Johnson’s feet. Surprised, the sergeant took a second look towards his saviour. It was Harry that stood before him, rifle smoke drifting upwards.

39

“Always check the rear sir, you should know that. Now, sir, take a breath. We’ll get through this alright. We always do.”

Harry flashed a brief smile. Somehow, despite the endless horrors they had faced, Harry still upheld a positive disposition. Johnson admired this greatly. Suddenly another German grabbed at Harry around his neck hauling him backwards. As the sergeant ran forwards to assist his friend, a foe grabbed at his legs, causing him to stubble and he grappled with Johnson. Sergeant Johnson stabbed the man’s hand making him recoil in pain. He then slashed at his stomach, 10? 15? 20 times? He could not tell, and he did not care. He was now covered in the man’s blood and could smell the scent of death. He twisted his head around, back to where Harry was.

Now he witnessed the worst event of the war, the deaths of the others seem tame compared to this. The blade cut through Harry’s uniform, and the blood began to seep through the woollen tunic, staining it crimson. A mild look of shock appeared on Harry’s face as the wound began to spread and he fell to his knees, the mud squelching and absorbing the fall as he collapsed upon it.

Now the anger overcame Johnson, and in an act of pure, burning rage he screamed and cursed and jumped at Harry’s killer, stabbing mindlessly as the man cried out. The sergeant did not stop, again and again he struck him with the knife. It was only as Johnson regained partial control over himself that he realised his victim could be no older than a teenager, 16 or 17 at best. His fair hair covering the pained and gore-covered face. Sergeant Johnson dropped his bayonet, realising what he had done. The sergeant had almost dismembered the torso of his victim. It did not matter to him, instead he returned and shook Harry’s body, searching for some sign of life within him. He was desperate. Sergeant Johnson lifted and held the body, calling the name over and over. “Harry!” Harry was the only friend he had known and now he was gone. The sergeant screamed in anger and frustration as he was flooded with grief and rage.

Then he cried. The warm tears matching the rain that poured upon him, gently tapping at his helmet. Johnson knelt above his companion, looking down on him with the memories of their friendship. Sergeant Stanley Johnson refused to believe, to accept that Harry was gone. Johnson was not a religious man but, in the moment, prayed for Harry’s life. He began to think of how he was going to tell Harry’s wife but pushed these thoughts aside and closed his eyes. He did not know how long this war would take to seize his life too, yet for once he did not care. There was nothing left now, except to be the example for his men. His one hope had gone. Death no longer seemed so terrible.

He began to cry again.

Theo Pickard

40

Chased You are being followed.

You have always known, even as a child. You have never seen the person, though it might not be a person.

You have no way of knowing.

Sometimes, you talk to it. You never say anything of importance, just outline the rough events of the day, the few that there are. You often wonder why it listens, your life is boring, and all events are repetitive. Maybe it isn’t listening.

You have no way of knowing.

It is almost midnight as you walk down the empty, gloomy street. You like to take midnight walks to clear your mind, and apparently so does it. A fog has set in, surrounding you. You should feel intimidated, but you have been surrounded, followed you whole life. The fog tries to protect you, obscure its vision but nothing can fight it.

You know that.

You hear the clink of the pint glasses and the cheers from the crowds of people coming from the pub across the street. You can almost smell the stench of alcohol of people’s breath. You know the smell well. During your childhood, your father would come back with that smell on him as he stumbled into the house early in the morning. You had grown up with it and as you started to go to the pubs late at night, it had lingered around you. And now as you wander the streets, the smell was following you.

It was the smell.

Most people have a favourite smell and a smell that they despise. The stench of alcohol was your favourite smell and also the smell that you hate.

It was the only smell you knew.

You stumble down the street, limping and dragging your leg behind you. You feel a searing pain shoot again and again down your leg and you feel helpless. You feel the stones of the cobbled road beneath your feet. You know they are cold, but you do not feel it. Your feet are numb like your mind. You feel for the wall for support. You need help but you are alone.

There is only it.

You have never had a home. Even now you wander the streets at night. You have no friends to call for help and no family sane enough to support you. You have always been alone; apart from it. But now you are struggling and have no one to uplift you.

It would not help you.

You fall to the ground but don’t give up. Never give up you have always told yourself. Never give in. It falls with you, not for comfort but out of pity. You drag your limp body, along the road, determined to reach the end, if there is in an end. You have been on the same street your whole life and you always seem to end up in the same place.

Maybe you never left.

You don’t know.

41

You never sleep. You are too fearful, and sleep makes you vulnerable. You often hallucinate from exhaustion.

Maybe it is a hallucination. Maybe it is not real.

Losing all strength, you let it capture you. You had to give up. Maybe you will never leave this street. This life was not meant for you. You turn your head and look at it and see yourself. The dark figure is merely your shadow.

You have been chasing yourself your whole life. The smell of alcohol was on your breath not another’s.

You have been following yourself. You heard only your footsteps.

You mind has been playing tricks on you, twisting memories and thoughts.

You are crazy, mad. Everyone could see it but you. But now you do too.

As you look at it, your mind opens, and you see your broken self-staring back at you, telling you it is over, telling you to give up.

But I will never give up. Now I am truly alone, and I have only myself and my thoughts. But that is enough.

It has to be enough.

Anonymous

42

Fear I have encountered fear. It appears when you are most vulnerable. Slowly, it seeks out the broken ends of the threads that hold you together and tears them apart. It slides into the crevices of your soul and then into your brain, expelling all rational thinking and turning the mind into a quivering wreck. It is strong as well. It is almost impossible to banish fear from your body; mostly you have to wait till fear itself decides to move onto its next victim.

I have smelt fear. Rather like an onion, the stench of fear is so strong that your eyes begin to stream with heavy tears, and you hear yourself cry out but there is never a response. The smell of fear is like no other; it slowly builds up to become overwhelmingly unbearable and makes your nose tingle as if you have just walked into a room with walls newly painted. The stench leaves you as slowly as it hits you. Fear likes to leave a trace.

I have heard fear. It is not a screech, which you might expect to hear but rather a discreet noise that lingers in your ears and becomes intolerable over time, alike fingernails scraping down a chalk board. Sometimes fear is silent, but you can still hear it. There is an uneasiness, almost as if fear is in your mind and is the noises you make, the cries, the sobbing, the breathlessness, the gasps.

I have felt fear. Its touch is cold but not like ice. It is dry, leaving no mark that can be seen.

The feeling that remains is the memory of it. Its impact lies in your inability to let it go. It leaves you helpless, knowing the only one that can release you, is you. You feel at fault, when you know you aren’t. It makes you feel alone. It makes you feel scared.

I have tasted fear. It sits insistently on your tongue. The taste is different every time, sometimes sour, sometimes bitter but never sweet. It has never tasted sweet. Fear makes your tongue feel heavy and your mouth full. You drop your jaw in an attempt to expel, to be rid.

Rid of the fear in your mouth. But fear is strong and does not leave willingly.

I have seen fear. It is not an object or a person. It can be seen in any light, in any place. It shapeshifts within your mind, filling your head with indescribable thoughts. It’s not like it follows you but rather you are following it. It is always one step ahead of you.

Honor Dwerryhouse

43

Illustration by Sylvain Chan

44

The Stretch of Seconds It was one of those nights; one of those gloomy, dark nights when time seems to stand still, when your breathing clouds your vision and echoes in the trees’ whispers. A refrain. A song you once knew belts in the distance. You imagine the fireplace crackling, dancing in the kitchen, laughing at pointless jokes. It was simple. Life was simple. You lived it fast, trying to enjoy every moment God had given to you on this Earth. You didn’t believe in God, but you pretended you did. You felt like you should. You weren’t forced into that belief, but you wanted peace and apparently that was where you were supposed to find it: in the reams of stories about prophets, in the tinted sunlight of the cathedral. You prayed. For what, you did not know, but the feeling of your knees on cold stone brought you comfort as verses parted your lips. You were young. You sinned, both worlds were open to you and you treaded one foot in each. Naivety. “You are naïve”. Why is the word so heavy? So judgemental and full of lost meaning? Isn’t it fun to be young and make mistakes you will later cry about, promise not to repeat, but as soon as the pain subsides, redo all over again? Naivety is love. A promise; a promise that you are meant to break. You contortion yourself into positions you would rather not be in to please, to serve a purpose. You love, to be loved. Give what you want to receive. The older you get, the more the word becomes synonymous with pain.

“Pleasure is pain”, they say. But the truth is, that in pain there is pleasure. You like pain. You like being hurt, because for an instant it lets you forget all the harm you have brought onto others and wallow in self-pity. For a few minutes you get to hate the world and blame others for all the hardship they have caused you. That is your escape. You don’t like to blame yourself. You blame the weather, your financial situation, your city… but you never blame yourself. Why? Because you are selfish. That’s the tough pill you need to swallow. On every human, greed is tattooed in capital crimson letters. The true, disgusting blurry image of yourself in the mirror. You close your eyes not to see, yelling at your reflection and it yells back.

Jealousy follows you like a shadow in mid-day. Invisible, subtle, but present. You were jealous of everything and everyone. You want what you cannot have. That is human nature.

Another scapegoat you provide yourself with. In some was jealousy is attractive. It brings out emotions in you which you didn’t know existed. A murderous smile. Possessiveness. You want to be craved, radiating sweet poison like a bonbon in a candy store. You prey on the weak. They are an easy target. You manipulate them, lure them in, giving them a new addiction. Add one to your collection.

Tell me about your childhood. How did that one argument you had with your mum when you were twelve over what you wanted to wear to the park affect you in the long run? Do you remember the screams ricocheting off the walls when your dad tried to teach you maths when you were five? Your therapist made you talk about it. Said it will help you form more meaningful connections. It did not, but you didn’t really try. All you wanted was to be perfect, for them more than for yourself. You craved praise. You wanted to make someone proud, anyone, to validate your existence, to tell you that you are not worthless. That you deserve to live. That you deserve to be joyful. That you have a purpose. We love you. “You can be the next Einstein”. You wanted to be Einstein - to be acknowledged. You wanted to be remembered. You were bored of being average like a jack in a deck of cards. You never got to be Einstein. You finished school with above average grades, did well in university, graduated with an honour. Your degree was useless. Nobody cares about your passions. As an adult you realise, you are not meant to love your job. For the next three years you were unemployed. Nobody wanted you. You wandered from one interview to the next, trying to find purpose in life. A meaning.

45

You took up drinking. A drink when you felt sad, a drink when you were bored to help pass the lonely, monotone ticking of the clock, a drink on the rare occasions when you were happy to celebrate. All this followed by a cigarette, then another. One before breakfast, one after lunch, and one right before dinner and bed. To calm your nerves. You told everyone you were a ‘social smoker’, crumpling the third receipt from the corner shop in your pocket. You felt guilty. Embarrassed. It was a way of hurting yourself indirectly. You couldn’t be conscious, it required too many guts, you needed to be brave, and you were not. So you killed yourself from the inside first.

You met someone, on a beautiful night just like this in the early hours of the morning at one of those fancy clubs you went to. You went there for attention. You wanted people to notice you. You wanted to feel real. Skin on skin. Feeding off the hungry stares given by strangers.

Want. Ownership. You danced alone, in the middle of a sea of couples, you put on a show for anyone watching. Teasing. You knew exactly what you were doing. Until you saw him. It wasn’t love at first sight. That doesn’t exist. Yet you approached him, not the other way round. You bought him a drink. You ordered him one of those colourful cocktails that women were supposed to drink, for a laugh, to see his reaction. He accepted. He understood your joke. The thumping of the music made your conversation inaudible, voice hoarse from screaming, he bent down to hear you better making you feel small. Lights flashed. A strobe like pulse matching the rhythm of the night. Blue, green, red. A mirage of colours. The shot of confidence raced through your blood unleashing the inner you. The you that you didn’t let people see. You were nearly happy. It had been a long time since you had felt present in a conversation. He was like you. You didn’t like that. You didn’t want to be understood because you didn’t want to be vulnerable. But he set you free. You spent a year or two with him. It didn’t work out. He shape-shifted, ended up being controlling, manipulative, a fraud.

These layers were revealed slowly like the shedding of skin. You locked yourself in the bathroom to get away from the constant criticism. But he said he was sorry. He said he loved you. He said he would change. It’s funny, because even though you could see through all his lies, you chose to believe him, you decided to give him a second chance, and a third, and a fourth. You stopped counting after the fifth. You tried to see how long you could hold your breath for in the bathtub to drown out your thoughts. Water blurring the sound. You liked the euphoric high given from a lack of oxygen. You liked the feeling of blood thumping against your skin. Gnawing of the inside, about to burst. That rhythmic thump. A lullaby. The only proof you had that you were still alive.

You murdered someone. In your mind of course. You were too scared to kill a person in real life however you had it all planned out. You probably would have gotten away with it. God would have helped you. He helps everyone, He helps the bad people more than good. You didn’t sleep. You got very good at covering the signs of that. Your thoughts frightened you.

They were too loud. Although sometimes they were silent, and that was even more terrifying.

Empty. A void. You wondered if that was the silence you would be greeted with after death.

Lethal. Eternal. Damnation. You sucked in life and spat it out again, recycling your varying personalities. A new mask for each ‘special’ occasion. You made sure they were pretty. You took care of yourself because you were scared of being ugly. Without your charming looks you would be useless, just like all the other women who had been thrown away. Your mum told you men wouldn’t like your attitude. You were scared of aging. You didn’t want to die.

Mostly because you hadn’t lived yet. You lived a life of pretence, lust and paranoia. A never ending cycle which made you curse the world. You never asked to be here. Privileged. A waste of space.

Now, you take time to appreciate things. Especially the night. Imperfections cannot be seen in the dark. You can blend in with all the lovely things on this world and pretend you belong

46

there for a bit. You are a guest, but you cannot stay long. Your visit is timed. Your presence troubles everyone else. The night envelops you, a type of physical contact which brings you back to reality, you observe the synchronised dance of the trees. Their bare hands shivering in the bitter cold. You feel sorry for them but there is nothing you can do. Like them you are helpless. A pawn in a game. Replaceable. Only moving one step at a time. You are the next sacrifice. You drag in a breath, letting it out melancholic melody through pursed lips. A call.

Or is it a cry?

Zlata Lankina

47

Solitude From the outside, the building looks composed, as if it has accepted solitude and come to realise that residents and passers-by are a luxury it can do without. The building looks haunted as if there are spirits hiding in the walls. Shadowed by a large cedar tree the moonlight hardly reaches the building, meaning the only light source is the oil lamp I am clutching.

The only remaining inhabitants of that abandoned building are the spiders. Like wallpaper, their intricate cobwebs had laced the walls beautifully, but now in dusty clumps they lay scattered across the floor. When looking around the room, one would observe the peeling wallpaper and the broken windows, with edges alike the coastline of a small island; but my eyes were drawn immediately to the bottle of whisky sitting on a small, wooden table in the corner of the room. The strong scent of the whisky had hit me as soon as I stepped into the building but now it burnt my nose with its intense, acidic odour. I notice the seat next to the table. It shows the indentation of the previous occupant. Led by my curiosity, I walk over to the table and reach for the whisky bottle. It is still warm. I prepare myself to hear creaking or voices but instead the looming silence, heavy and dark like a passing cloud, proved to be more frightening. I gently place the bottle back down on the table and with the corner of my eye notice a dirty, old cabinet in the corner of the room. The cabinet’s elaborate designs, although hidden behind the mass of cobwebs, bring some life to the building. The shapes of the wood spiral and interweave, like water flowing down river. The cabinet’s glass doors swing open to uncover sets of silverware, packed neatly into rows on the shelves. I reach out my hand to grasp a particularly stunning candlestick. It is cold from the winter gale rushing throughout the building and the shock of the piercing cold makes me drop it. Each thud of the candlestick is like a beat of my heart. The noise echoes, almost awakening the building. I shudder as I reach down to pick it up, feeling senseless and numb.

Upstairs, the condition of the building is no better. Some of the floorboards are missing and most of the walls are destroyed, making the area feel cavernous. A branch of the cedar tree is poking through a hole in the wall, where a window used to be. I grab onto the cedar’s branch and hold on tightly. Crouching against the wall, I close my eyes and wish to be safe.

Anonymous

48

Weakness I, the one that is strong, yet weak. My eyes tear, my legs tremble, at the sound of my own thoughts. Weakness. Not only in the mind but in the body. What makes me frail? What makes me wail to the Gods that rule over my imagination? I am frightened. I am terrified.

Terrified of my own inclination. I have not lived long, yet I wish to stop. To not toil, to not fight. Fight who? You may ask. The answer is clear. Have you ever acknowledged a tree?

Each limb, stretched from its body. Longing for the light, the water that brings it life, and the air that enlivens its very spirit. Clothed by its own offspring, nourished by its individual drive to maintain longevity. This is everything you would think necessary to keep alive. But you fail. You lack the ability of reason. For a tree does not speak, it does not think and it does not rest. Yet, she is told, time after time to sleep, to talk and to ponder her animation. But you forget, my mind does not sleep and she does not want to talk.

She forgets that she is living. Living for others, living for more than she may know.

Today I cry, tomorrow I laugh but forever, she doubts. Doubts her reality. She is hesitant to believe, yet gives herself away freely to those in need. Those who are just like her. Watch, as tonight she lays in wait, and the battle begins, thought after thought. Washes her, like wet rain. Cleansing her of dust. “ Relief!” she cries, fully aware that the pain resides in her weakness, her inability to distinguish what is right, from what has always been done. This is her greatest fault. “Weakness!” she shouts.

But she is not weak. For this is not weakness. She is strong. In fact, this is what makes her strong.

Her fear protects her. Her tears comfort her, and her thoughts create her. She is who she is because she falls short. Resembling the wood that fractures, yet still persists to extend, in hope to one day reach greatness.

Nicole Okorocha

49

Illustration by Mattie Butler

50

An Assassin’s Mind An assassin shall always complete their task.

I slipped through the windows effortlessly. The sky was an unattractive black, and I could feel the stinging stare of the stars boring into the back of my head as I pointedly turned my back on the light and slowly, softly, closed the latch.

I chuckled humorously. They had every single thing imaginable, yet not one of them had thought to get better security.

It was pitch black and the huge room was hollow and empty. The odourless stench of a room unused filled my nose immediately. The ballroom was grand and adorned with pink and gold - the grotesque decoration stung my eyes. I snarled, the defences on my mind that I had trained so tirelessly to enforce coming down momentarily. Of course she had chosen pink.

I regained control over my mind and curled my fingers reflexively around my beautiful dagger. But I realised it wasn't working; the mind barriers were slipping, falling, plummeting.

I shook the dangerous thoughts out of my head. It had to be done now, or I would remember and therefore falter.

An assassin shall never feel. An assassin shall never feel. An assassin shall nevAnd there she was.

Her fairy-like fingers flicked the lights on, and the chandeliers suddenly exploded into a spectacle of glistening diamond. Gracefully and perfectly she waltzed into the room, her billowy rose-pink silk taffeta trailing behind her. I picked up on her intoxicating scent immediately. Rosewood. My mind began to respond, but I shut it down with a hard slam. And yet An assassin shall notice the unnoticeable.

It was a rule to notice, so surely questioning the suspicion and formulating an unbiased (always) decision was just obeying the rule.

I let out of breath I wasn't aware I was holding, and as my lungs desperately clawed for air I tentatively unlocked the mind barriers. 1986. Summer. Laughing, the sun smiling down on us. Me, my gorgeous mother, and Rose. Perfect, Princess Rose.

I blinked back forbidden tears.

“It’s perfect,” I had said blissfully, twirling the perfume in my hands. “Rosewood, for Rose!”

Mother had smiled and ruffled our hair, looked away, and life went on as it must.

But not for me. I remained stuck in that moment, a lost figure frozen in time. Paralyzed in the ease of the past that had been ripped from me because of who they thought I was.

51

The tears threatened to spill. But my training had taught me better. Conceal, they said.

Channel your emotion into your task. Complete your task. An assassin shall always complete their task.

A melancholy, melodic voice snapped me back to the present. It was her. Rose.

“Oh, Mira.” Her usually regal posture slumped into a pile of grief as she dramatically threw herself onto a lavish armchair. I lifted my arm, the knife’s diabolical glint temporarily blinding me. I stepped out of the shadows that had always enveloped me and prepared to complete my task.

“If only you hadn’t listened to what they said about you. They lied.”

An ear-shattering guttural scream filled the room as my blade plunged deep into her untouched, untainted soul and ripped her heart out of her chest in one swift movement.

A single, lowly tear danced its way down my sunken and sallow cheek as I observed the beautiful mess I had created. The sky smashed open into a thunderstorm above me, lightning ripping through the huge, fat raindrops that fisted the ground savagely.

I stepped back, ready to be reclaimed by the darkness.

“No they didn’t, Rosie. They were right. Evil isn’t born - “ From somewhere deep inside me, a menacing sound erupted into a fire of long-suppressed emotions. A laugh. A dark, low laugh. “ – it’s made. For an assassin shall always complete their task.”

Téa Sand

52

Morgan Woods A serene veil of light as soft as summer wind obscures me from any sense of not belonging.

Nostalgia is not needed; this is my haven. The noble oak protects me, he is my heritage. My mother is tenderly embracing me. Her ethereal dappled net lies above me like a hushed and mystic church. But now I must make my way. This is my Sleeping Beauty wood where daring bands of birds rejoice sounding their ocean-clear songs, each one a fleck of vibrance. I make my way amongst the hazels to where the squat mushrooms, the verdant herbs and all manner of edible roots and flowers can be found. Squirrels are parading among the Hawthorn boughs, chatting. My destination is but an echo away. The soothing aromatic scent of honeysuckle and parsley engulfs me.

I like to collect my thoughts in the woods. They may be noisy but that doesn’t bother me.

Usually, I only go for a small walk but as I had a few hours to spare I thought I would go further. I don’t even know why people call them Morgan Woods. They aren’t even woods really- forest more like! Richard told me that they are at least 50 miles in but even I know they aren’t that huge. The Main Road is only 7 miles the other side. Anyway, as I was saying, I thought maybe I would catch up on some exercise and go a few miles in, on the path of course. The only thing is that after a while there is no path. I was panicking now. I couldn’t even tell which way I had come from.

“Just walk straight and you’ll have to reach the edge sometime.” I told myself. But that wasn’t as smart as it seemed. Some woods are thick. Really thick. I had tied my red sock to the branch of a tree so that I would know if I was going in circles. I was.

After about 2 hours I just sat by the sock-tree praying for a passing hiker and after about another hour, one came. Now I never go very far in the woods.

Bee Billet

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Guilt Shallow breaths. Bent over, doubled, stifled even. Fingers twitching, eyes bulging, throat closing. Again, and again and again. This routine, paralysing everything and every movement and every thought. That mistake was fatal, there’s no turning back, and yet…I hold my breath because maybe there is something I can do, some way of taking it all back, somehow it just didn’t happen but…

My thoughts are spiralling out of control, I’m sorry, I can’t help it, I can’t stop. All these noises and these thoughts and these pointless questions they keep rushing through my head, faster and faster, and they keep coming and there is no space for anything, and my heart is beating, and my hands are shaking and I… Retching on the floor. That’s the last image I see. A flash, a noise and then the silence as my brain dulled. I saw her foaming at the mouth, and I know I should have said something. I just dropped to my knees and sat there, how I contort with rage when I picture this. The commotion of crying, for around me people were sobbing with their heads in their hands and I tried, I really tried. I could have sworn I was crying too. But then I think about it…I shouldn’t. I’ll get all frantic again and my heart will jolt. I’m fine one moment, and then the next I’m full of grief like something has trapped me and shut the door. Every thought, I convulse with hurt. Words come out shaking for even if I’m thinking about something else entirely, I can feel the screams as I found her. I should have done something, but I didn’t know what and now…it’s my fault. I’ve grown paler, my hair thinning, for every time I go back to her house just to see, all I can think about is whether she’d be okay if I had just…

People say I shouldn’t feel this way about every little mistake I make. But this isn’t a little mistake, no one else seems to care, seems to feel this way. I don’t know how to describe it, it just is, I just am. Around me everyone’s sad and fearful but no one’s quite like this. The remorse I feel is overwhelming every thought inside my head and making me feel so ashamed. Fatigue seems to flood all the corners of my life because I can’t stop being this way…

Anonymous

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Illustrated anonymously

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Galatea Aphrodite has conceded to his delusions. She devours his offering, gluttony possessing her as she sucks on its bones, digging them into the crevices of her inner cheeks. The scent of charred meat still lingers at her grubby fingertips as she bounds me in silk garments that clasp around my figure like an iron clamp.

A ravenous wave of agony swallows me whole. It rolls me around in its tongue like a pampered cat with its yarn, and crunches down at jagged intervals languidly, brutishly canines penetrating into the austere white of my body. The pain clings onto me with the permanence of varnish to wood as all I can do is stare, paralysed by the tides’ hauntingly ruthless gnawing. The fabric cocoon tightens at my arms, digging into the glassy surface like a burrowing rodent - chipping at the cloudy ivory, pieces flaking away like the dry skin from his blisters. They crumble to the ground, assimilating into the sediments and dust that enshroud his cesspool of a workshop. Cracks continue to contour my body; drilling into my shoulders, my torso and my legs with the insatiability of a satyr. It crackles in the same timbre as the fire he cooked his sacrifice in.

A discomfort contracts and expands from within me, my hollow chest erratically pounding at the torment of a fleshy dampness crawling its way from underneath the cavities of my fracturing encasing. It engulfs my disintegrating snakeskin, spreading across my physique in its place with the same tireless wrath of mould. Skin propagates on every corner and crevice of my surface like parasitic fungi; the sickly beige usurps my ruptured ivory, clambering upwards my frame as barbarously as a starved carnivore. The silk fabric sympathetically censors my mutation.

The door opens. And just as the last patches of skin and muscle embed themselves onto my diseased body, he enters - gaze fluttering towards me like a bewildered moth to light. A heavy silence permeates the air, before the corners of his mouth stretch upwards his leathery face as he inches forward, calloused hands cupping my cheeks. Repelled by his darkening expression yet with nowhere else to turn, I stare at the girl hazily reflected in his eyes.

Brunette curls straying from the delicate braid wrapped around her head dangle curiously above her forehead. My face flushed with unbridled fury translates into a baby-pink tint of embarrassment in hers that compliments the rosy hue of her parted lips, freckles delicately decorating her expression. Her dress hugs her form elegantly, glistening under golden rays of sunlight. With a roughness equivalent to sandpaper now grinding against her lips, she melts into his arms, entranced.

My stomach churns in disgust.

Sylvain Chan

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Illustration by Sylvain Chan

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Daybreak Song It was a work day, and for prisoners like us that meant heaving pickaxes to crush rocks and scrape dirt under the sweltering midday sun. The agonising lift, each inch tearing muscle from bones, wish, smash. A rhythmic trance took hold of us and, forgetting the harsh hold of our leg shackles, we felt something beyond the sharp twitches of our traitorous muscles. The rattle of our chains with every swing, the clash of tool and earth with every impact, the scramble of feet with the reverberation of force through our skeletons – there began a song. I closed my eyes.

A shout! A command. A disruption – like a mistimed accompaniment, except it demanded the song’s end, but, against expectation, the song grew yet louder. The previously confused scramble of feet had turned into a sure march following the crashes of our picks.

A shout! Again, another disruption – yet with a lesser effect. The now overwhelming song overpowered the cries of the few guards on duty. Soon enough a whistle was blown, as perfectly off-beat as one would think possible.

Other guards poured into the field where we worked like an infection entering a wound.

Armed with batons, they gave us a final, full-volume warning to cease our indignation.

However, a thought entered our collective minds all at once: the guards were holding batons, rarely something an unarmed prisoner would try to contend, but we were not unarmed. Our pickaxes became our keenest defence and we immediately began to put them to good use.

No, not as weapons, but rather there started a decidedly irregular clattering as we all took them to our chains and shackles. A few swift crashes and clangs and we were free. Like leopards, we leapt through the field of jagged rocks and crusted mud. We were fatigued and bruised, attentive and deaf, free and fast.

Almost implausibly, we made it to the woods without a graze. Not a single trip nor stall hindered our forward freedom march, but there was no time for rest. Next came the barks – a most unpleasing tone that did not complement our escape. Without a word we agreed to separate into smaller group and ran through the woods, trying desperately to dodge the dogs of our savage captors. I was in a group of just four men, each one of us prepared to shove the other out of the way if the force should accelerate him so much as an inch further from those poorly tuned animals. As it would soon turn out however, I did not need the assistance of these men to come tumbling to the ground. I tripped on a tree root and my head stole the occupation of my pickaxe as it smashed against a rock. That should have been it – the end of my escape, if not my life, but I hadn’t even reached the chorus just yet.

When I woke, I found myself not in the cold cuddle of the forest floor as I had expected, but rather the warm embrace of a freshly laundered bed. I looked around the room; the glow of the setting sun had been replaced with the fervent crackling of a fire, and the trees of the forest with their deceased brethren who now composed the walls of my new abode. I noticed the proud moose-head on the wall opposing me, and it occurred to me that we undoubtedly had a similar experience, going from forest to room with little explanation for how or why.

Of course, the experience had been far more beneficial in my case than in that of the moose, but I contemplated the similarity all the same. After I had indulged this thought, the next that entered my head was to check for handcuffs – or indeed leg-cuffs for that matter. Perhaps I had run further than I thought and a guard had found me with enough courtesy to help me to the nearest medical authority, but not enough to leave me there free. Or maybe there had been a bounty placed upon us escaped prisoners and the person who’s bed I now occupied was inclined to make good on its prize. Paranoia – all of it. I found my wrists as ungrappled as only my mind had been back in captivity. Likewise, my legs were now completely free of the

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remnants of incarceration that had previously been clawing to my ankles. My curiosity was now suitably tantalised and I had to explore further, but, as I leant up, I found myself overcome with dizziness. What followed was a swift swish as my head reacquainted itself with the pillow it had only just bid adieu. I reached up to my head with frustration and felt a damp cloth tied to the side, and as I brought my hand back down, I realised the scarlet source of that dampness.

The doorknob began to rustle – someone was fumbling with it on the other side. I clenched every pore of my body in anticipation of my saviour. The door swung open in a poorly controlled clatter and an elderly man holding a sponge and tray wafted into the room. He came to my side in silence; setting the tray down on the bedside table gently, he took a seat and began to do his work. He removed the blood-sodden cloth and as he did a sharp antiseptic stench travelled down and engulfed my nose. This odour spurred me awake and I asked him who he was.

‘Who do you think I am?’ He asked in reply, chuckling lightly.

Frustrated with the energy I needed to expend with every syllable, I merely uttered the word ‘please’ with intonation. He capitulated with a mere half-answer, saying he had been sent to take care of me. He was a jolly man – thickset, with a mane of aethereal spun silver and a smooth round face. Certainly not the typical hunter you’d expect to find living in such a home, yet perhaps this was why I had not awakened in restraints once again. I felt a terse tug as the man finished securing the new cloth with a knot. Perhaps prematurely, and definitely against the advice of my caretaker, I forced myself upright and slowly turned to place my feet on the wooden floor. I then exerted my weight upon it and staggered to my feet like an unbalanced fawn on ice. My legs finally reached the quivering position of a cautious stance and I hobbled over to the fire, hoping my balance would not forsake me. The piteous sight of me – that must have been the reason for the caretaker’s kindness, for there was no one who could have sent for help like the man suggested.

I listened to the crackling of the fire, its cadence reminiscent of those rhythmic chains and picks heard in the work field. There was a window I hadn’t noticed to the right of where my caretaker was sitting. It was daybreak and the rising sun seamed to excite the now clean frosted landscape into a marvellous dance of sparkling colours. As I watched, I felt an swell of emotion take hold of me. I determined it to be relief – and with it, a great knot of anguish in my throat that persisted in its escape no matter how badly I tried to swallow it back down.

It felt as though it were going to strangle me – like it could not fit through its escapeway. The pressure spread upwards to my eyes and the already glistening view blurred into a sea of brilliant glitter which began to run down my cheeks. So this was the face of freedom?

A deep, jovial chuckle resonated from my caregiver. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ he asked. I did not reply, but simply wiped my eyes clear of crystals. I had never seen a sight so celestial. And it was then I realised the man seemed to be perfectly akin to his home – not in his ‘beauty’, if you would even call it that, but in a certain other quality I struggle to put into words.

He walked over to my position by the fire and continued to express his thoughts. ‘Amazing how that tuneful song can be composed of a series of perfectly sequenced clashes of light.’

We stood there side by side for a moment before the caregiver offered me a meal. He led me down the stairs and into his modest, yet well composed dining room. No moose heads here, instead the walls were a scatter with a miscellany of butterflies. They were each painted with such a wonderfully unique pattern, and there were so many that it seemed they were trying to raise the room up to the angelic realm only they could visit. Before I had time to fully appreciate each of these angles however, my caretaker re-entered the room with a oddly extravagant tray, upon which lay our meal. We sat and enjoyed each other’s company until I could no longer withhold my ever pertinent questions. The dam broke. All at once, I

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submitted a flurry of queries to him, yet he answered but one, that being why he had not taken me to the authorities.

‘I find the highest authority to be that of a man’s own conscience.’ he stated softly. ‘In my experience, that will punish and award more justly than any judge in the lands.’

I leant back in my chair, contemplating whether he could be unaware of my lack of freemanship. No, it simply was not possible. When he found me I had most assuredly been wearing those shattered shackles – they’d have given me away in an instant. I decided not to push it either way and directed my attention to my first satiating meal in years. It was not a regal meal; the ingredients were not varied, nor were the portion very generous, but to a famished man like me it could have been the nectar of the gods themselves. When we had finished our meal, I asked one last question. ‘When may I leave?’. My caretaker gave me a grin and a sideways look, replying that I was under no obligation to stay and could leave whenever I wished.

‘Oft’times in life it is not “when may we leave”, but “how long may we stay”.’ he said.

I would not have to wait long before learning what he meant by this. I had originally intended to stay with the caregiver until my head had healed and I was once again fit to face the troubles of the world. However, that plan was interrupted one night near sundown when I was headed to the heavenly realm of bed and I stumbled, catching my toe on the final step to my bedroom. As I tripped, I found the world once again consumed with the darkness of my eyelids, and when I reopened them I found myself back in the field I had – for that brief period of time – escaped. The song had finished. An authority of man had quelled it. All that was left was the once more ill-coordinated sound of pickaxes against ground. Swi- smash – swi-swish sma-smash. They had stolen my freedom again. And I should have wept like a child, but, as I listened to that same clanging and clinking of tools and rock, it dawned upon me that they may – even if just for a moment – one day resynchronise, and I might once again visit that joyous song.

Finn Cleghorn-Brown

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Assumption Walking through the crowded halls. Hawk eyes glaring around. I feel the judgement seeping into my bones. Overtaking my thoughts. Head down, not daring to look into anyone’s eyes, I spot my reflection. Frozen to the spot. Bewildered that I’m no longer a lone star, hidden in my darkness. Maybe this will be the time I can finally be me. I can’t begin to imagine the joy of my captivity being released by this person. A person who seems so like me. However, could it just be a case of mistaken identity? Could I have just turned into my snake’s mind?

Followed in all his paths? The paths that I so deeply didn’t want anyone to have to be at the end of? Paper flying. Pens crashing. The floor rising up to me. My dictator scowling into my glass eyes. The voices silenced as I gaze at the boy who I so deeply dislike but is the same as me. My mind a running river. Thoughts flowing all around. How can I feel so connected to a person who has made me feel so dreadful? The one person I wished I would never have anything in common with, now I do. Why do I feel this magnet pulling us together? Why does it have to be him? Crawling away, not breaking the eye contact for one moment.

Wanting to stay there forever, gazing into his deep olive eyes. Together, wanting to run away and never show my mistaken identity again. How do I say these feelings? All the judgement that I will receive. I must just keep this hidden away, in a black hole of thoughts. Even after all the spitefulness, I still feel this connection. I just want to feel normal. Why can’t I just be accepted for who I am? This feeling won’t go away, no matter how hard I try. It will always come back. Haunting me forever. Praying one day he reaches out to me saying, “I’m you, just in a different font.” I try so hard to fit in. But this burden of not knowing who I am, who I like, what I am, is weighing me down. I need a light to shine through a crack and show me that I am who I am. But all I feel is that I am the mistaken identity.

Anonymous

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If you would like to talk about any of the issues explored in this collection please do email pastoral@kings-school.co.uk or reach out to a Peer Listener.

All donations from this publication will go to the chosen King’s Week Charity

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